I regret to say that I like this "Iliad-inspired" deodorant

plus, some scholarly musings on how the Iliad smelled (ie: bad)

Welcome, new readers! There are quite a few of you, and unfortunately Substack’s analytics have made it impossible for me to tell where you came from. There was also an influx of TERF troll comments on this piece. I want to reiterate that Myth Takes is, first and foremost, a queer- and trans-friendly space and that I will swiftly and cheerfully delete any comments I feel are harmful. I publish pieces about the joys (and occasional “joys”) of living in a queer modern family as well as pieces about myth and literature, and I’m committed to making this a safe place for my readers and commenters. And to all of you who engage with humor, respect, and good faith — I appreciate you!

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It all started with this Facebook post:

Helen, whose work I’ve written about here before, is a wonderful writer with a keen eye for the absurd. So of course I clicked on the link, and was delighted by what I found. Immediately there was a pop-up overlay inviting me to subscribe for updates:

I was so pleased that I sent a screenshot to my agent, Anna Sproul-Latimer.

Note: to the best of my knowledge, it does not contain antiperspirant. I know that because I’m looking at the ingredient list right now. Because I did indeed buy it.

Why did I purchase this deodorant? Maybe because it amused me. Maybe because my current deodorant is running out and I actually do need to get some. Maybe because I’ve been coping with the absolute misery of the present moment by embracing my absurd whims, and my self-care strategies have, for some reason, proven woefully inadequate for addressing situations like “half my state is on fire and my brother was just widely memed apparently checking out somebody’s breasts at the inauguration of a fascist.” Who knows?

I was definitely curious what it would smell like to be “inspired by the Iliad.” One can only assume that most parts of the Iliad smelled… pretty bad. I mean, with the exception of a couple of scenes where Helen and Hera anoint themselves sexily, the Iliad is mostly about (presumably) sweaty dudes in full armor, hanging out in tents or hacking each other to pieces on a beach. There’s also a plague at one point. So when I think of what the Iliad smelled like, I can only imagine that it’s a combination of locker room + crematorium, which doesn’t sound like something I want to be applying to my armpits.

Because I’m theoretically a scholar, but kind of a lapsed one, I both wanted to be sure that I wasn’t misunderstanding the role of scent in the Iliad and didn’t feel confident enough in my knowledge of the text. So I reached out to Joel Christensen, an actual Homer scholar, who confirmed that the sense of smell figures barely at all in the Homeric texts. Aristophanes’ characters talk about how farts smell bad, but the heroes in the Iliad do not. Joel pointed me to this excellent article about the Odyssey by Melissa Mueller, which argues that Odysseus’ dog Argus recognizes him by smell. This is an argument and not just an observation because “there is no overt reference to the olfactory nature of Argus’s recognition.”

So talking about the smell of the Iliad is, I admit, entirely conjectural. But I feel pretty secure in my conjecture that the Iliad smelled bad, except for the scene where Hera seduces Zeus. I imagine that scene smelled like some kind of divine sexy smell that probably can’t be reproduced even at the fanciest French parfumeries.

The first thing I want to make perfectly clear is that the Iliad inspiration for this deodorant isn’t just some marketing copy on their website. As far as I can tell, it is a core part of their brand. I know that because it’s written on the deodorant itself.

The French translation is a nice touch.

Also, I have to recommend in the strongest possible terms that you visit their website. It’s a work of sheer WTF genius, possibly some kind of performance art. It’s full of paintings of people in classical dress revealing their armpits, and it has a glossary that must be read to be believed. Why does a deodorant brand need a glossary? I can’t think of a less relevant question. Especially when the glossary looks like this:

Thank you, deodorant company, for the suggestion — command? — that I absorb an interview with Emily Wilson in the New Yorker “at an attentive, unhurried pace.” Flawless. (Also: Emily has an excellent newsletter you should be reading!)

Ok, sorry, I need one more:

“People: they really matter very much.” Wise words, copywriter for this Iliad-inspired deodorant company. Wise words.

But! The absolute kicker is that, actually… this deodorant is good. If you look past all of the random Iliad references, it’s just a nice, roll-on deodorant with a kind of sharp herbal smell, sort of like if you rub your fingers on fresh rosemary. I found it pleasingly gender-neutral. And, impressively, it held up during a pretty intense boxing workout that I did in an enclosed garage, knowing that if the deodorant failed I’d be torturing my boxing coach. I know this because, a few months ago, I accidentally scheduled my first-ever mammogram for right after a boxing lesson, not realizing that you aren’t allowed to wear deodorant before a mammogram, which led to the garage smelling a bit like I imagine the Iliad did. Fortunately, when I wear this deodorant, the garage only smells inspired by the Iliad, which is much better.

As absurd as I feel saying this, To My Ships has actually become my go-to deodorant.

So that’s the story of my not-very-edifying journey into liking this deodorant. If just one of you enjoyed this and upgrades to a paid subscription, then that will pay for this exorbitant deodorant and I’ll feel a little less ridiculous.